


mon amour, mon amour, j'aurai le mal de toi

by ellispage21



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:19:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispage21/pseuds/ellispage21
Summary: the 7 times Enjolras said 'I love you' and the one time he didn't.





	1. mon amour, toi et moi

_“It reminded me of you.”_

Grantaire blinked three times, then looked up at Enjolras, and back to the package he held in his hands.

“Of _me?_ ” he asks, unsure of whether this was a joke. He was certain Bossuet had some involvement, but how? And why on Earth would Enjolras agree to some stupid prank?

Enjolras nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you’ll see what I mean. Open it.”

“It reminded you of me though? Of _me_?” He repeated, now turning it over in his hands. It had been wrapped in true Enjolras fashion, reams of tape securing it in place. He studied the wrapping paper, it was for birthdays. Underneath every declaration of celebration, and there were plenty, Enjolras had painstakingly written ‘Jesus’.

“Happy birthday, Jesus,” Grantaire laughed, one hand on his shirt, “because it’s Christmas?”

“Precisely.” Said Enjolras, smiling with him, “I would have written Patria, but she is still waiting for her day.”

From a few metres away, Courfeyrac called, “Shut up about the Patria, it’s Christmas!”

He rolled his eyes, making Grantaire laugh more, “just open it already!” he urged.

Grantaire felt his way around the present, his thumb trying to hook under any loose paper. Unfortunately, there was none. He was going to have to rip it.

“Do you, um,” he motions to the gift in his lap, “did you want to reuse this paper or—”

Enjolras chuckled, and Grantaire’s heart hammered in his chest, “don’t be daft. Rip it.”

 

So, he did. Out of the paper tumbled an evergreen coloured jumper. Enjolras started to chew on his fingernails, he had seen it whilst walking through the market on his way to university, and hadn’t hesitated in buying it. He hoped that Grantaire would like it.

He held it up in front of him by the shoulders, and everyone could see his smile.

“What is it, R?” Joly asked, moving to sit on the arm of Grantaire’s chair.

“It’s a jumper,” Grantaire told him, told them, turning it around.

Emblazoned across the chest was a light grey R, and every head turned to Enjolras.

“Do you like it? I wasn’t sure of your size, so I just got the sa—”

“Thank you, Enjolras.” Grantaire interrupted, grinning, “it’s perfect.”

“You can sew?” Marius asked in disbelief, “you can barely sit still for 5 minutes!”

 

Enjolras smiled and hid his hands underneath himself, hiding the scabs littered across his fingers and palms where he had accidentally stabbed himself with the needle in frustration. He didn’t mention the seemingly endless hours he had spent drawing and re-drawing the ‘R’ in his semi-scrawled handwriting, trying to make it neat. He didn’t mention how he had fallen asleep on it (more than once) because he had been working on it until the early morning. He didn’t mention that he had tried it on when it was finished, and his breathing had gone awry at the thought of Grantaire’s name, or initial rather, on him. How he had felt the material with his fingers and worried that it may be too scratchy for Grantaire’s soft skin. How he had scrubbed it furiously in the kitchen sink in order to soften it (and perhaps to remove the smell of him, as he might have been wearing it more often than he wasn’t.)

 

Grantaire’s eyes were bright, and all of Enjolras’ qualms vanished. He liked it.

“I taught myself.” He admits, which earnt a few titters. Grantaire leant forward to put his hand on Enjolras’ knee, and the world seemed to pause, as if they were the only two in the room.

“Thank you.” Grantaire echoed, his fingers twitching slightly and stroking the side of Enjolras’ thigh.

“Y-you’re welcome. Merry Christmas.” He chokes, annoyed at himself for losing composure so easily.

When Grantaire removed his hand, Enjolras’ leg felt suddenly tense, and he cursed inwardly again.

 

“Merry Christmas, Enj.”


	2. deux oiseaux sur la croix

_“I’m sorry for your loss.”_

 

His shoulders heaved, and Enjolras felt a wave of sadness overcome him. Grantaire had adored his mother, he had never gotten on well with his father, so she was all he really had. Tuberculosis hadn’t cared, it had ravaged her body with such a veracity that Grantaire had barely had time to say goodbye.

Enjolras remembered the day that she had died. Grantaire had been late to the Musain, and Enjolras had lambasted him, told him that he would never amount to anything if he couldn’t be bothered to turn up on time, had ignored the sheen in Grantaire’s eyes. When he had finished, slightly out of breath, he asked Grantaire if he had anything to say for himself. Grantaire had swallowed thickly and stared him in the eye, “my mother is dead,” he had said, and Enjolras’ legs had gone weak.

He shook away the memory, and placed an awkward hand on Grantaire’s right shoulder.

“You’ve been so brave.”

Grantaire looked up, his face red, eyes wet. Enjolras felt a tug in his heart and squeezed his hand down. He smiled sadly, and brushed back some of Grantaire’s hair.

“You don’t have to be here.” Grantaire said quietly, leaning into Enjolras’ touch nevertheless.

Enjolras thought about this for a second, and then replied, “yes, I do.”

He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, and studied the boy in front of him. Enjolras had worn black, had instructed the Amis to do the same. The funeral was cold, and rainy. Grantaire had cried, kneeled in front of the coffin and sobbed. Nobody touched him, although Enjolras longed to. He needed time to grieve. He had made a speech, Enjolras thought back to it.

_“Mama, you will never read the words I’m writing, you will never read them again. I have been crying all day. Talking about you in the past tense is tearing me to shreds, because that is what you are now – a piece of the past. Your heart stopped beating, and in that moment, so did mine. I will tell them that you were beautiful in every possible way, that love shone out of your eyes, that every act was done with kindness. That without you, I would not be here to write this. Today, I will watch you go back into the dust from which you were made. I don’t know what kind of dust God used to make you, but I know it was special. Stardust, I imagine. You are lying in that cold box, and I am crying the heart-wrenching cry of someone torn in two, because in this moment, I know that there is nothing I could want more than to be lying under the ground next to you.”_

“You hate churches.” Grantaire mumbled, bringing him back to focus, “you always say religion signals the death of logic.”

Enjolras smiled again, turning slightly to face him, bringing one hand up to rest against his cheek.

“Religion is for people who are afraid of Hell, Grantaire; spirituality is for those who have already been there.”

Grantaire nodded, his eyes searching for something in Enjolras’ expression, “I miss her, already.”

“I know.” Said Enjolras, “you can love someone so much, but you can never love people as much as you can miss them.”

“I want her to come back,” Grantaire admitted, slumping sideways into Enjolras’ arm. He lifted it up and around his back, so Grantaire was against his neck. He tried to ignore the thumping in his chest, “even as a shadow, even as a dream.”

“She will. She will live forever in your heart. And I know it won’t stop hurting, but you will keep on living.” Enjolras told him, brushing the back of his hair with his fingertips, “it is like when you broke your leg; although it hasn’t healed properly, and it still hurts when the weather is cold, you have learnt to dance with the limp.”

“You don’t have to be doing this.”

Enjolras sighed, he wanted to tell him. But he couldn’t not like this. So, he settled for a simple, “I do.”

“Why?” Grantaire asked, sitting up straight, “you are under no obligation.”

“When you cry, I want to cry, too. When you hurt, I feel a stab in my chest. I am here to take your grief and make it my own. And when you’re ready, together, we will try to hold back the mourning and the despair, and I will do my best to guide you through the potholed streets of life.”

Grantaire said nothing, just leant back into his touch, warmth flooding through him. For the first time since she had died, he allowed himself to smile.

Enjolras pressed his lips into Grantaire’s curls and left a soft kiss.

“It won’t be today.” Grantaire whispered.

“I know.”

“It won’t be tomorrow, either.”

 

“I’ll be here for as long as you need, and after that, too.”


	3. dans ce bal des classés, encore je vois large

_“Take this, it’s cold.”_

He held it out, the glint of the gold buttons reflecting onto the back of his hand.

Grantaire shook his head, “you need it more than I do.”

He was right, Enjolras was particularly susceptible to cold weather, 15 degrees was enough to make him shiver. He smiled, “true. But I have the warmth of rebellion in my soul, what do you have?”

Grantaire laughed and rolled his eyes, “about two and a half bottles of wine, actually.”

Enjolras laughed with him, his jacket dangling from his fingers. Grantaire took it from him, turning the sleeves the right way out from where Enjolras had hurriedly taken it off when he saw Grantaire’s breath in the air.

He tugged it on, and Enjolras felt a surge in his chest. The angry red against Grantaire’s pale skin, contrasting with his flushed cheeks drew his eyes in, and he had to catch himself. The sleeves were slightly too long, bunching up at his wrists.

“Comfortable,” Grantaire mused aloud, smoothing the front of the jacket against himself.

“Yes.” Enjolras agreed breathlessly, unsure if he was numb from the cold or the view.

Grantaire pulled the sleeves down over his hands, and swung his arms. The now empty fabric hit Enjolras in the ribs and he smiled, endeared. Grantaire smiled, too, and shook his arms.

“You look ridiculous,” Enjolras told him, but he didn’t listen.

“Look!” He called, summoning the other Amis, “guess who I am.”

He took a long stride forwards, closer to their friends. “I study all day and never sleep, sometimes I fall asleep in meetings without anyone noticing, or on Jehan.”

This made Jehan laugh loudly.

“I don’t need human contact because I am untouchable, and I love the Patria, who needs girls when I have her?”

More laughed at this, and Enjolras felt himself blush. If only he knew.

“Grantaire!” Grantaire shouted, mimicking Enjolras’ private-school accent, “could you please _behave?_ ”

Turning back, Grantaire shot Enjolras a grin, and even if he had been annoyed, it would have instantly dissipated. He was such a child, the innocence and the impish laughter that echoed from him went straight through Enjolras, and into his heart.

“Alright, alright.” Enjolras said, putting one hand up, “enough.”

Grantaire’s eyes flashed, “ah, the master has spoken. Alright, boys, clear out.”

Amongst the laughter, Enjolras recognised his own, and caught himself off guard.

 

 

After the rally, Enjolras found him again, leaning against the railings of the library.

“Hey,” he said, offering a sort of wave. He cursed himself for being so awkward.

Grantaire hadn’t really noticed, “hi.” He replied, without looking up from his drawing.

His fingers were covered in charcoal, as were the hems of Enjolras’ sleeves. He bit his lip.

“Do you want to wear that home?” he asked, and Grantaire looked up, confused.

“Um,” he scratched his head, “oh, the jacket. No, you can have it back when I’m done with this.” He lifted his sketchpad, and wiped his fingers on the jacket. Black lines smeared and blurred into one another, and Enjolras hissed.

Grantaire doesn’t apologise, and Enjolras thinks he probably didn’t notice, or just ignored it. He reached under the jacket, into his own pocket and pulls out a small bottle. When he drinks, he grimaces. Enjolras knew it wasn’t water.

Grantaire noticed that time, saw his questioning gaze. “Self-medication, I guess.” He said, then refocussed on his work.

Enjolras can’t stop himself.

“Even when I learn everything about you, I still can’t make sense of you.” He blurted, “I can predict you, but you’re still nonsense. If anything, it makes you even more frustrating.”

“You charmer,” Grantaire said, with something in his voice halfway to a laugh, “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Enjolras felt his face burn red again, and he concentrated on his shoes.

“I’m teasing, Enj.” Grantaire told him suddenly, “I meant to say girls.”

Enjolras gave him a weak, somewhat-forced smile in return, and said nothing.

“I’m off,” he continued, “I’ll see you… tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Enjolras nodded, “at 5pm.”

Grantaire smiled, “right. At 5. See you there.”

Enjolras watched him leave, the red bursting through the crowd like a firework.

 

It wasn’t until Grantaire was gone that he realised his jacket went with him, but somehow, he was still warm.


	4. peut-être qu'on sera repassés dans un très proche, un naufrage

_“You know where I am if you need me.”_

Grantaire nodded and gave him a tight smile. Things had been difficult for him recently, recurring nightmares haunted his nights mercilessly. It started with vague shapes, always silent, and colours swirling in front of his eyes – brown, red, black, grey. But the more he slept, the worse it became, and eventually he could not escape, not even for a few minutes. As soon as he fell asleep, he was bombarded with violent, bloody images, the same one every night.

_It started with Combeferre screaming, the same, high-pitched wail that went straight through him. He is in pain, but there’s something not right about him: sometimes his glasses are the wrong colour, or he’s missing a tooth. It’s Combeferre, but it isn’t. Grantaire grabs him by the shoulders and squeezes him, but he continues to cry. That is how it always started, and for the first week and a half, that’s how it ended, too._

_One night, when Grantaire collapsed exhausted into his bed, something was different. Not different with Combeferre, although he did notice that his eyes were brown instead of green, and he couldn’t quite figure it out. Not until a strong voice pierced the air, calling his name above all names, and his heart ceased to beat. He took off in a moment of adrenaline, leaving Combeferre curled in a ball on the floor, feet tripping underneath him, and for a few seconds he can’t see or think, he just knows Enjolras is out there, and Enjolras needs him, and the noises that he’s making Grantaire would die a thousand deaths to unhear. He slumped to his knees, folding in on himself, pressing his hands to his ears in a desperate attempt to block it out, he couldn’t breathe, he had found Hell and couldn’t see the surface. Over and over, Enjolras is begging for him, his voice sounding weaker and weaker by the second, and Grantaire knows they’re killing him. He let out a guttural shriek above the noise, one that tore the humanity from his throat, and ripped his final ounce of hope into shreds._

_He awoke to Courfeyrac clutching him to his chest, repeating “it’s not real, it’s not real,” and suddenly he was aware of the tears streaking down his face, of the blanket stuck to his back with sweat, to the gasping of his breath. He allowed himself to be held for a while, and apologised vehemently in the morning, but the others were more concerned than irritated._

 

He sighed and pulled the sheets up to his armpits, his eyes were perpetually heavy, and his thoughts muddled into one, incoherent bubble of gibberish. He turned his head to look at the painkillers on his night table, and wondered how many it would take to stop the pain in his heart. He remembered his mother saying that the only people awake at 2am are in love, lonely, drunk, or all three. Craning his neck, he squinted at the clock on the far wall. 1:47am.

“Close enough.” He whispered to himself, and focussed on the ceiling. Sometimes, if he looked hard enough, he was able to see his mother’s face, only for a second, and then it would be gone. He somehow felt lonelier when it had gone, as though he was being teased with the memory of her. He was already starting to forget her voice.

At 3:03am, he concluded that he wouldn’t be sleeping that night. He tossed and turned listlessly, before giving up, sitting straight against the cold wall. He welcomed the temperature change, noting that his sheets were often soaked with sweat when he woke up. Remembering what Enjolras had told him, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his socked feet making almost no noise when they hit the wooden floor. Standing slowly to stretch, he scratched his face, reminded himself to shave in the morning, and shuffled quietly out of the room.

 

There is something strangely intimate about watching another person sleep, he found, as he sat in the semi-broken chair next to Enjolras’ bed. He had lit a candle before falling asleep, and it was still burning when Grantaire entered; he secretly hoped it had been for him.

Enjolras, usually so uptight and well-ordered, slept diagonally across his sheets, his duvet tangled between his legs. His curls covered his face, and he clung to his pillow. In the dim half-light, his skin shone gold, and Grantaire smiled. _The gods are not so good at disguising themselves._

He cleared his throat, and Enjolras stirred ever-so-slightly, shifting to lie on his side.

“Enjolras?”

He groaned in acknowledgment and brought his right knee to his chest, not wanting the warmth to escape.

“Enjolras, wake up, please.”

Enjolras grunted and moved to sit up, wiping his bleary eyes with the back of his hands. Grantaire exhaled sharply and smiled, relieved that he wasn’t in trouble.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, his voice gravelly and full of sleep.

Grantaire paused, “No. I just can’t sleep. And you said—”

“I know. What can I do?”

He shrugged his shoulders lightly and frowned, “I don’t know.”

They were silent for a few seconds, and then Enjolras pulled back his duvet. Grantaire pushed himself back, causing the chair to grind against the floor. Enjolras grimaced and patted the space next to him.

When Grantaire made no effort to move, he said, “Grantaire, it’s getting colder by the minute. Are you getting in or not?” to which the answer was immediately “yes.”

 

Grantaire had dreamt of this for as long as he could remember, and yet it was nothing like he had imagined. Enjolras was like a sauna, his skin temperature must have been astronomical, but he didn’t mind. It contrasted nicely with the coolness of his own, and reminded him of his mother’s loving embrace. He shuffled himself back until his spine was flush against Enjolras’ chest, and let his head drop on the small section of cushion Enjolras had given him.

He turned his head and Enjolras smiled at him, and the stars became surpassed in what brings him light. It’s all teeth and there was a hint of happiness in the way his mouth moved. The sun’s blaze turned to ash, and Grantaire felt warm, and wanted. He was living in the darkness until Enjolras’ grin found his own. Enjolras realised that Grantaire’s eyes were dark enough to fall into. His eyes held the torment he had been through, and he wished that he could heal his scars, but he could only try to alleviate some of the pain. His eyes would make deities of the ancient world throw themselves into the pit to prevent more loss. His eyes found Enjolras’ and the colours of the universe seemed brighter, softer, more beautiful.

“Are you tired?” Grantaire whispered, his own eyes feeling heavy for once.

Enjolras grumbled into his ear, something that sounded vaguely like “no”, and he smirked. He was never one to admit defeat, not even to sleep.

“You know, you can sleep if you want to. I didn’t mean to keep you up, I can go.”

Enjolras’ arms around Grantaire’s waist tightened as he sighed into his hair. Grantaire can’t help but smile and slowly slid his hand down to where Enjolras’ were clasped. He let it rest there, tapping on the knuckles, until Enjolras let go of his own hand and Grantaire’s fingers slipped in between.

“Stay,” Enjolras said eventually, his voice quieter than Grantaire had ever heard it.

“Stay?” He echoed, a smile forming on his lips. He was wanted. He was needed. _By Enjolras_.

He felt Enjolras nod into the back of his neck, and closed his eyes.

 

For the first time since he can remember, Grantaire had a peaceful night’s sleep.


	5. il n'y a rien d'autre à dire

_“I had a dream about you.”_

 

Enjolras stretched his arms up over his head and lifted his back off the bed, smiling slightly.

“What happened?” Grantaire asked, his voice raspy from fatigue.

Enjolras turned to look at him, taking in his morning features. His eyes looked bluer in the streaks of the morning sunlight that pierced the room, and his hair was frantic and frizzy. He was a mess, and he was beautiful.

He shrugged, “I can’t really remember. We were in a room, and then it’s hazy, and there was someone there I think. You might have tried to save me. I don’t really know, there was a bang and then I woke up.”

Grantaire tipped his head back, his curls touching his shoulder blades, and laughed.

“Weird,” he said, grinning, “I had a dream that I saved you.”

“You did?” Enjolras asked, unable to keep the smile from his face.

“No,” Grantaire laughed again, “I just wanted to see your reaction.”

Enjolras batted him with the pillow, and stood up, one hand resting on the iron bedframe. He watched Grantaire run a hand loosely through his hair, chuckling when his fingers got tangled. He remembered when he realised he felt something a little bit more than friendship.

 

_When he met Grantaire, the world didn’t reroute on a new axis, but the stars seemed to glimmer a little brighter than they did the night before. When he shook Grantaire’s calloused, paint-covered hand, something inside him told him that he was in the right place. But they clashed like a storm of fire and ice, and it took him looking back on what felt like a lifetime to realise that he had changed, that a part of him recognised Grantaire’s scars as the same as his own, the moment he spoke his name._

_It took breaking, sobbing in the middle of the night, and realising that they could be alone together. Grantaire had found him in the Musain, and awkwardly held him until his waistcoat was littered with dry tears and snot. It was that moment, where Enjolras saw him looking back, not like he could save him, but like he recognised the shadows dancing on his skin, the bruises and clenched fists and ache inside his heart. The world grew quiet, like it was giving them the time they deserved, and it was in the darkness that Enjolras realised they could make history._

_It’s when Grantaire took his hand at rallies to pull him to safety, it’s when he gazed into Enjolras’ eyes like he’s something worth worshipping. It comes and goes in waves until one day he wakes up and his first thought is Grantaire, and when he dreams, the last name he utters is his._

 

“Enjolras?”

He shook his head and smiled back at him, dazed, “what?”

“I asked if you were hungry, everything alright?”

“Yes,” Enjolras reassured him, pulling on a shirt, “what would you like to eat?”

Grantaire tilted his head to one side, thinking, “I’m not fussy. Whatever you’re having.”

Enjolras nodded and made a mental list of his kitchen, “I think I could make crepes, if you want.”

Grantaire grinned, “my favourite.”

 

“That can’t be true.”

“I promise!” Grantaire laughed loudly, leaning over the kitchen table, watching Enjolras cook.

“How have I not known this before?”

“You never asked.” He replied, and Enjolras half-turned to look at him, a smudge of flour on his cheek.

“Tell me about it.”

Grantaire took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on his thighs, “well, my father was a teacher, he taught maths. I was never very good at it, so we didn’t really get on. I was closer to my mother, which is why she took me with her.”

“You were a mama’s boy?” Enjolras teased, cracking an egg into the pan, and wiping his greasy fingers on his apron.

“I suppose you could say that,” Grantaire giggled, “we went to England, first, and then Germany, Spain, Italy, Portugal. Everywhere, really. She wrote about them, and I absorbed what I could. In fact, some of my paintings are inspired by foreign art forms.”

Enjolras smiled, aware that Grantaire couldn’t see him, and hummed, encouraging him to continue.

“But..” He said sadly, “we never stayed in one place for very long, a few weeks, maybe, a month. I have seen conflicts and wars.”

“You must have seen a lot of beautiful things, too.”

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras’ back and nodded, “yes. But for all the beautiful things I have seen, the bad ones seem to outweigh the good.”

Enjolras faced him now, his hands propping him up on the countertop, “How is Paris compared to all of that?” he asked gently, wanting to change the subject.

Grantaire laughed quietly to himself and fished in his pocket for his wallet, “It has changed a lot since I first visited, but it is home.”

“You came before?” Enjolras repeated, incredulous. He knew that Grantaire, like him, was from the deep south of France, him the Loire, and Grantaire, Province.

He nodded and reached over to give Enjolras a faded picture. It is of Grantaire, a child of only 5 or 6, a big, gap-toothed grin, in front of the Eiffel Tower. He is holding a balloon, and his knees are grazed, his white socks slipping down his legs. He has the same unruly hair.

“May I have this?”

Grantaire shrugged and nodded again, “if you want. Why?”

Enjolras took a pin from the side and tacked it onto the wall by the kitchen sink, “because I hope that one day you’ll smile like that once more.”

Grantaire felt his cheeks burn and he focussed intently on scratching at the table in front of him. Enjolras studied him, so broad and strong, and yet so small and vulnerable.

“Oh,” a voice said from the doorway, making them both jump, “hello, Grantaire.”

“Uh, Combeferre,” Grantaire replied, lifting a hand in greeting.

He looked between Enjolras and Grantaire quickly, raising his eyebrows behind his glasses, before taking a seat opposite him.

“Did you spend the night?” He asked suddenly, and there is a crash from the kitchen as Enjolras drops his spatula.

“I-I uh,” Grantaire stutters, “I, well, um—yes.”

Combeferre nodded, as though it was perfectly normal, as though Grantaire had stayed before.

“And the nightmares?”

Grantaire smiled a little, “I didn’t have one last night.” He said, flicking hastily to Enjolras, who was walking towards them with their plates.

Combeferre returned the smile, and silence fell. The only distinguishable noise was the scraping of cutlery on the crockery as they ate. Every so often, Enjolras would risk a glance upwards, to find Combeferre staring at him over the top of his glasses, or Grantaire focussed on the crepe as though he wanted to burn through it with his gaze.

 

“Did you two sleep together?” Combeferre broke the silence, and Grantaire choked on his mouthful, forcing himself to swallow the water that Enjolras had given him.

“We slept in the same bed, if that’s what you’re asking.” Enjolras told him calmly, barely looking up.

“You know that’s not my question,” he smirked, looking instead at Grantaire, “R?”

“We just slept.” Grantaire confirmed, his face on fire.

Combeferre chuckled and opened his newspaper briskly, “alright,” he muttered, “if you say so.”

Enjolras glared at him, and rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help himself from imagining it. The way Grantaire would be so desperate as he writhed underneath him, the flush of his cheeks, the breathlessness. He felt a sudden tightness and looked up to find Grantaire mirroring his expression.

“I better go,” He said quickly, standing up and pushing his plate into the middle of the table. Enjolras caught sight of his trousers and his breath hitched in his throat.

“I will walk you to the door,” Enjolras offered, but Grantaire shook his head, “no, no. I will see you both later, I have things to do.”

Combeferre and Enjolras watched him go, and Combeferre chuckled, winking at him.

“I suppose you have business to attend to, also?”

“I do, actually.” Enjolras snapped, more fiercely than he had meant to, and retreated hastily to his bedroom.

 

That night, when there was another, expected, knock on his door, Enjolras didn’t hesitate to open it.


	6. je ne veux pas que tu partes

_“Please, come back.”_

 

Enjolras kept his hands clasped together, in a quasi-praying position. Grantaire had been missing for three full days, and Les Amis were growing more worried by the hour. He had taken time for himself before, but never for this long, never without telling anybody where he was, or what he was doing.

He looked up and out of the window, seeing the moon in the sky. Another 24 hours had passed, with no word from the cynic. He heard the door open and leapt to his feet, stumbling over himself to get out of his bedroom.

“Gra—”

“Enjolras,” Feuilly said solemnly, “sorry for bursting in like this.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras assured him, glancing at the party outside of the door, “is everyone here?”

Feuilly nodded, his blue cap sprinkling dust onto his shoulders, “we’re going to look for him.”

 

Rue d’Arras was not a place that Enjolras had oft frequented during his time in Paris, so he was unpleasantly surprised to be there. His nose scrunched up at the stench of alcohol and vomit, and he walked so close to Courfeyrac that they were almost conjoined. He saw Montparnasse leering at him with his gang, and shuddered. Grantaire had been a part of that, once.

“Looking for something, boys?” Montparnasse called, mocking. Enjolras rolled his eyes and did his best to keep his voice steady.

“We’re looking for Grantaire.”

Montparnasse laughed, alongside the rest of them, “well you’ve come to the right place. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, especially not in Paris.”

He pointed to an alleyway just a few metres away, and laughed louder, “welcome home, we said.”

Enjolras lunged, his fists curling underneath Montparnasse’s collar. Claquesous lifted his hand, but Montparnasse shrugged him away.

“I’m not scared of you. You’re a pretty little thing.” He teased, licking his lips.

“You don’t know fear until you know me,” Enjolras snarled, “nothing compares to the monster I will become if you do not leave him alone.”

“He is not what you think he is,” Montparnasse said, to both Enjolras and Les Amis, “he is not the sun or the stars, or the sky. He is just a boy.”

Bahorel and Bossuet stepped forward, anger flushing their faces a deep red, and Enjolras relinquished his grip.

“Leave him alone.” He said, finally, and gave him one last push, hearing his back crack against the bricks.

 

Grantaire was truly a sight to behold. Rounding the corner of the alleyway, Enjolras saw him. Slumped heavily against the damp wall, his jaw bloody, a cut through his eyebrow dripping red onto his cheek.

“Grantaire,” Joly whispered, kneeling to inspect his injuries. The others stood behind him, mouths agape. Combeferre began to cry.

“Please,” Enjolras eventually said, taking one step forward, “I need to speak with him.”

Joly nodded in acknowledgement, leaning back on his heels before standing straight, “he is in a bad way. When you are finished, we must take him home.”

Enjolras quickly agreed, and Les Amis turned away, forming a small group on the other side of the street. He could hear them talking amongst themselves, worried for Grantaire’s safety.

 

“Hello.” He said softly, kneeling just as Joly did. He felt the rain soak through his knees, but didn’t pay attention to it.

Grantaire smiled weakly up at him, rolling his head to the side to face him properly.

“What happened?” Enjolras asked, scanning his body for any other wounds.

“I am what happens when they turn good men into demons.” Grantaire replied, wincing as Enjolras touched his shoulder, “I wish you had met me before.”

“Before what?”

“When I still had a light in my eyes. I wish you were my first, so you could experience a completely different me, but that’s not going to happen.”

“I knew a boy once who fought like he could cleanse the world with the blood on his knuckles.” Enjolras told him, running one hand down his arm.

Grantaire closed his eyes, the blood trickling into his eye, “Perhaps he forgot that there are only 5 litres of blood in the body.”

Enjolras nodded slowly, “perhaps he did.”

“They say that the loveliest angels make the cruellest demons.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras frowned.

Grantaire smiled sadly, “my fall was no accident. I was chosen for the damned.”

“Grantaire..” He said quietly, not looking into his eyes, “you—”

“You say my name as if flowers are blooming from my blood,” Grantaire interrupted, “but they would fill your lungs and curl in the spaces between your ribs.”

Enjolras made eye contact, blue searing into blue, “I would name all of the flowers after you.”

Grantaire didn’t blink, “you are a young child of the wild ones.”

Enjolras laughed a little, and then took one of his hands in his own. His nails had dirt underneath them, but his fingers were caked in blue and yellow paint.

“Why do you never paint me?” He asked without thinking, quickly regretting opening his mouth.

Grantaire closed and opened his eyes slowly, taking all of Enjolras in before saying “if I wanted to paint you, I’d have to shatter a thousand stars and colour the canvas in their dust. And even then, I wouldn’t be able to capture your light.”

Enjolras felt a pull in his chest, one that felt like love, and adoration, and sentiments that he _swore_ to himself he would never feel. He cursed himself inwardly and moved to stand. He reached out a hand to Grantaire.

“Come on, let’s get you home.”

Grantaire looked up at him, his eyelashes clumped together with blood, his lips cracked, hair pushed back off his face with rain.

 

“I’ve been home since the day we met.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short but it's painful


	7. ma tête est pleine de mots, mais pourtant rien n'en sort

_“We should talk about this.”_

Grantaire pretended valiantly not to hear this, continuing to hum under his breath. Enjolras would have believed the façade, only he heard the wavering of the first note.

“Grantaire.” He said a little louder, and tapped him on the shoulder. Grantaire reluctantly turned to face him.

“I don’t think we should.”

“Yes, we definitely should. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Grantaire looked down, at nothing in particular, and Enjolras felt suddenly desperate.

“Grantaire,” he repeated, “ _please._ ”

 

They sat facing each other, the dull chatter of their friends far behind them. Enjolras crossed one leg over the other, and Grantaire ran a dry hand through his matted hair nervously.

“If you want to start, you can. Or—”

“If you will be my Apollo, I will be your Icarus.”

Enjolras blinked, stunned, “Grantaire, I—”

“I will fall, if you do. If this… this whole thing—if it works, if it goes how you want it to go, I will rejoice. I will be at your feet. When you’re changing the world, I will be by your side – if you’ll have me there. But, and I know you hate me saying this,” he took a trembling breath, “if it doesn’t. If something goes wrong, I will gladly take the hit. I could live in the world you want, Enjolras, but I couldn’t live in a world without you in it.”

He looked up slowly, his eyes full of tears, and Enjolras felt himself falter. He gently took one of Grantaire’s hands in his own, and traced a pattern with his thumb on the back of his hand.

“We are sitting in the mouth of the beast, and praying for tomorrow to arrive. We should know better than to hope it is enough.”

Grantaire nodded, and wiped his nose with his bunched-up sleeve. Enjolras tried not to grimace.

“Do you,” Grantaire began hesitantly, “do you really think it will work?”

Enjolras paused, and thought. How could he lie? How could he pretend he hadn’t cried whilst writing the letters to his family that, in the back of his mind, he knew would be sent? That he hadn’t had any sleep all night out of nervousness, that the thought of total oblivion petrified him?

He swallowed.

“Yes.” He lied, surprising even himself, but he knew that Grantaire had seen it – that miniscule flicker of doubt, the guilt, the _“no”._

 

 

“That’s absurd!” Combeferre protested, his hands flailing in anger, “we have worked tirelessly!”

“I know,” Enjolras told him, calmly, “I’m not saying it won’t work. I’m saying it’s a back-up plan.”

“We won’t need a bleeding back-up.” Courfeyrac replied, his voice stern. Enjolras met his levelled gaze.

“The cruellest enemy is time. I have born witness to its apathetic destruction too frequently to allow it our hard-earnt victory. Sometimes, my friend, the only way to win the game is to quit before you lose.”

From across the room, Grantaire’s head lifted, and they made eye contact. Enjolras’ mouth twitched up into a small smile. Grantaire lowered his head once more.

 

“What did you think of me the first time we met?” He asked, locking the door to the Musain. Behind him, Grantaire kicked up stones onto the pavement.

“Dangerous.” Grantaire smiled, bending slightly to wipe the dust off his trousers, “Your eyes were filled with anger and you had blood on your hands.”

“In my defence, it was my _own_ blood.” Enjolras laughed, pocketing the key, “I think someone jabbed me in the fac-”

“I know you would never hurt me,” Grantaire said suddenly, and seemed shocked that he had said it himself, “but when I met you, I wanted you to.”

Enjolras tilted his head in confusion, and Grantaire shrugged. For them, this was an appeasing answer.

 

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras said as he stepped off the curb to allow Grantaire to open his front door, “let’s turn everything we own into ashes.”

“You will make the sun jealous of how you burn.” Grantaire replied, not taking his eyes off the lock.

Enjolras pulled him by the shoulder, and he fell backwards against the heavy wood frame. He cupped Grantaire’s face, and felt his bones shake.

“This city is ours and I want to set it on fire.”

Grantaire searched for something other than flames in Enjolras eyes, but found nothing. He sighed.

“It will be the greatest funeral pyre history has ever known.”

He thought briefly about kissing Grantaire, but did not. This was not in mourning; it was not a goodbye. They wanted to set themselves alight, and they would. Together.

“Grantaire, I’m going to burn it down.” He repeated, unsure of why. Grantaire did not seem to notice, each time he said it, there was a new wave of something unsettling in his gaze.

“I will burn with you if you keep staring at me like that.” He muttered, and let Enjolras’ hands drop away from his face. He saw a blush rising on his pale cheeks.

As Enjolras turned away, Grantaire called “I would set fire to this entire world if it would keep you warm.”

He grinned, so hard that he was sure he could feel his facial muscles cramping, “will you light the match for me?”

Grantaire laughed, loud and in love.

 

 

“do you even have to ask?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy


	8. je t'aime

Enjolras knew it wouldn’t last forever. He had trained himself not to flinch at each gunshot, each explosion, but he couldn’t silence the voice inside his head that told him “this is it.”

He had watched Grantaire earlier that day, laughing as around him innocent people were mown down. Enjolras shot more guns, heard louder explosions. The best he could hope for was that he died first.

 

He loved him. He thought he loved him. He thought such terrible and beautiful things that he was sure he must have loved him. Perhaps he just wanted to love him, perhaps he just loved the bruises Grantaire would leave on his skin. Perhaps his heart was not made to love things that you can hold. Perhaps he never learnt how to let himself fall without a hand braced to catch himself. He had learnt that love was a terrible and beautiful thing. Perhaps he was frightened that it would not be terrible or beautiful enough.

 

So, this is it. Enjolras surrounded by snarling guards, torn scarlet flag tight in his left fist. The commanding officer was talking to him, he was sure, but he wasn’t listening. The roaring in his ears was deafening: he deserved this. His friends were dead, every last one. Dead, dead, dead.

His hands on the shotgun trembled, and he threw it to the floor. The red spilling out of the cut above his eyebrow felt as much a lie as the words that had spilt out of his mouth at every meeting. He can’t wipe the guilt off his face, so he covers it instead, crafting himself a mask and praying it’s steady enough to hide his fear.

 

As he stood, resolute and determined, there was a scuffle at the back of the room. The guards parted, and through the sea wove Grantaire. His shirt was damp with sweat, or alcohol, or tears. _Or all three,_ Enjolras thought.

He turned to face the ensemble, and Enjolras noticed his heart slowing down. No more was he afraid, his face set stoic as Grantaire begged for mercy and death as if they were the same thing.

This was the ending. Not ending as in finished, but ending as in stopped. As in there was no starting over, there was no trying again. Grantaire had wet cheeks and dry eyes, and there was a hole inside Enjolras that they had dug together. There would be no finish line, no final sprint for victory. There would be a pause, and then nothing.

This was goodbye. He wanted Grantaire to know that, without him, he would never have grown. He wanted him to try his best to stay brave, knowing that Enjolras, too, was filled with fear. That he was so, _so_ important to hm. That he had believed in him every single day. That their story would be written in the history books.

 

Grantaire took a wide side-step to the right, his eyes trained on the guards in front of them. Enjolras noticed that his silver cravat was twisted. His hands shook, and he cursed them, but Grantaire was smiling at him, ever patient, ever loving. Enjolras thought that the warmth in his eyes might have meant he would never feel cold again, and he stared, and he shook, and Grantaire opened his mouth.

 

“Do you permit it?”

 

Enjolras blinked, and the universe held its breath, waiting. He reached forward and pressed their palms together. It sighed with relief, and blew across their skin in the guise of a summer breeze. How incredible it is that a few small moments can take so long, how a lifetime was lived in the second their fingers intertwined.

He held Grantaire’s hand, and smiled. He wanted to tell him he loved him, that he had loved him for as long as he could remember. That all would turn to dust, and he would always have loved him there. That this moment would be this moment long after its forgotten, and it would always matter. They were there, they were there together, loved. There was no ending final enough to take away that truth: not even time is powerful enough to create a world in which he had not loved him.

 

But he did not tell him. He held Grantaire’s hand, and that was enough – Grantaire knew. He held Grantaire’s hand, and the guards lifted their guns. He held Grantaire’s hand, and he lifted his godforsaken flag high into the air. He held Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire held back. He held Grantaire’s hand, and the volley ricocheted. He held Grantaire’s hand, and they fell.

 

 

He held Grantaire’s hand, and finally told him that he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that's the end of that, my friends


End file.
